A Sponsor's Sense of Humor
by BarbedWire
Summary: A tribute receives a strange, and somehow meaningful gift from a sponsor. Oneshot. Original characters.


**Author's Note: Hey there everyone! So this story was just supposed to be based off a joke my friend and sister and I came up witht the other day about some potentially strange gifts that a sponsor could send to a tribute. It kept going off topic though, and although it was originally intended to be funny, it kept getting serious. I realized when I was half done that this probably ought to be in the first person, since that's what the Hunger Games are written in, but by that point I was already so far in I didn't want to switch over.  
This is dedicated to TheHaloFreak, and CheerUpGothKid.  
I don't know what else to say. I love reviews, so if you enjoyed let me know, but no flames please. If you'd like to offer criticism, go ahead, but not in the form of a flame. Let me know what you think of my character, it's been a while since I made up a new character and I'd like to see what you think of him.  
This hasn't been beta'd, so I guess that means I'm responsible for the grammar...****  
I don't own the Hunger Games. **

A Sponsor's Sense of Humor

The marshy swamp did not afford all that much in the way of cover, but Spark was fairly certain that the sheer unpleasantness of the thick mud, putrid water, and ceaseless swarms of blood sucking insects, some as big as his fingers, coupled with the lack of shade which left one frightfully exposed to the sweltering sun was its own kind of shelter. For the time being at least. Eventually the career pack would run out of other tributes to hunt down, and come for him. Every boom of the cannon was like the ticking of a clock, signaling how much closer he was to being deprived of the relative safety he and Ryeston, the slightly pathetic District 9 Tribute whom he had picked up in the woods, currently enjoyed. That was the other inevitable event which the boom of the cannons signaled: the end of the unstable alliance that he had allowed to form between him and Ryeston.

In hindsight it had probably been a bad idea to ally himself with the boy. It wasn't really practical; Ryeston did not offer any impressive skills that made him a valuable ally, he was not big enough to intimidate other tributes away, his performance at the cornucopia did show him to be particularly adept in the use of weapons, and there was not much evidence to suggest that his intelligence exceeded that of the others. Of course that might all be a clever act on Ryeston's part, lure everyone into believing that he was a thoroughly mediocre tribute so that they would not be concerned with him, but Spark had been willing to take that risk. It was not a desire for allies which had caused him to make the offer; in fact, allies had never been in his plan at all. He had intended to find the most unpleasant corner of the arena that he could possibly survive in, and stay there until all of the bigger fish had thinned themselves out. He was confident that he would not be seen as of enough of a threat to merit venturing out specifically for him, or at least that was the plan he and his mentor had arranged before the Games had begun. It had seemed to make sense as they'd talked it over in the safety of their dining room in the training center. There was logic in the idea, and he had had full intentions of sticking to it, until he had come across Ryeston. It was pity that had made him suggest the alliance, rather than just kill the boy, or even to ignore him and continue running. Pity and compassion that had made him pause on his way to the swamp and offer the promise of protection to a shaking fourteen year old boy covered in vomit and blood.

Pity and compassion. Such very, very human emotions; and so very, very out of place in the arena. The Games was no time to be offering kindness and consideration, not if you wanted to live anyway, and Spark had terrified himself as he had extended his hand, uttered the words and helped the boy to his feet. He had been counting on the natural stoicism that made him seem so unreachable to his own neighbors to aid him in these Games, to help him close out emotional responses to the world until he was safely home again. But his stoicism was nowhere to be found as he'd talked Ryeston down from the shaking tremors, offered him some of the precious food he had grabbed before darting away from the cornucopia. It had failed him. In the moment he needed it most it had deserted him. All those times at home it had been so easy to have virtually no reaction at all, and now, when every reaction was likely to bring about his death he couldn't force them to stay away. It wasn't that he didn't normally feel, just that his feelings never seemed to matter that much. He would acknowledge a feeling, anger or hurt or grief or elation, and then carry on with life as usual. He had been unable to do that as he'd made camp with Ryeston, and had instead been pummeled with emotional response after emotional response until he wanted to curl up in the swamp and cry, or perhaps waltz into the career camp to end such misery.

He shouldn't have helped the boy; it sabotaged his own plans for survival and complicated his method of surviving the Games, and yet, helping had seemed to be the only decent thing to do. Decency. That had no more place in the Games than compassion.

As the sky lit up with the seal of the capitol, and the anthem began to play, Spark's eyes fell on Ryeston's sleeping form as he swatted a massive mosquito off us his nose. If he wanted to live, which of course he still did, that child, who had thrown up and hidden after accidentally impaling a girl who tried to slit his throat, would have to die. Spark's only hope was that someone else would kill his friend before he had to.

As they anthem quieted, and the sky again went dark, Spark prepared to rouse Ryeston to take his turn at the watch. Although he did not have a great deal of faith in the boy's abilities, it would have been foolish not to take advantage of the alliance as long as it lasted. He leaned his weight onto the balls of feet and was about to shake his companion awake when he saw it.

It was just a quick silvery flash in the dim moonlight, but he instantly knew what it was. Or at least he knew what he hoped it was. A parachute, a precious gift of food or supplies from a sponsor, which Spark had not suspected he had; but the silvery object was indeed a parachute. It caught in the branches of a fallen log, a few feet behind him. The clattering noise it made proved enough to wake Ryeston, who muttered sleepily,

"Whas happning?" Spark put a finger up to his mouth to quiet him.

"It's a parachute, I'll get it." At the word 'parachute' Ryeston sat bolt upright, fully awake.

"A parachute? That means food, right?"

"Or matches, or a tarp, or a weapon or any number of other supplies," Spark replied logically. His growling stomach agreed that food would have been excellent, but that did not mean that his sponsors had sent food.

"I don't think I have any sponsors," Ryeston said, sounding remarkably young and sad. "It must be for you."

"It doesn't matter who it's for," whispered Spark a little more harshly then he intended as he pulled his boot free from a puddle of sucking mud as he made his way to the parachute. "We'll share whatever it is anyway. Now will you shut up before something hears you?"

He could not see him, but he was sure that Ryeston was beaming at him appreciably from behind. He wished he'd stop it; he did not need any more human actions to suffer his own responses to. It would have been better if the boy had thrown a knife into his back.

Of course he didn't kill him and after a few moments of struggling through the swamp, Spark was back in his seat across from him with the silver parachute in his hand.

"What's in it? Food?" Ryeston was barely able to contain his excitement, but he waited patiently while Spark opened the container and pulled out its contents. Inside there was a single tin can.

Ryeston looked down on it, perplexed. "Peas? Why'd they send us peas?"

"Probably to eat. It is food, just like you were hoping."

After a moment of blinking numbly across at one another, Ryeston doubled over on the ground, laughing as hard as he could.

"P-p-p-eeeeas!" he choked out, gasping for air. "Someone sent you p-p-peeas!" he continued to roll around on the wet, muddy ground as if the idea of a sponsor sending peas was the most humorous thing he had heard in his life.

"Maybe they're for you," Spark snapped, annoyed by this ridiculous behavior. Ryeston just shook his head and continued to laugh.

After a few moments, Spark no longer had any patience to watch Ryeston roll in the mud and laugh in a situation which was so blatantly not funny. He broke off the top of a cattail and sent it sailing for the boy's nose.

"Shut up. The careers'll hear you." This idea sobered Ryeston up at once, and he rose into a sitting position, clutching his sides and breathing hard while he tried to wipe the smile from his face. "We'll have to eat these cold, it's not worth a fire."

The boy nodded, trying his hardest to remain serious, and Spark set to work opening the can with his knife. It was harder than he had imagined, evidently the material the can was made from was more durable then it looked but after several minutes work and a miniscule cut to his thumb, the lid of the can was off. He looked down into it, expecting to see tiny green peas floating in a slightly greenish liquid. Instead he saw slices of fruit drenched in thick syrup.

"Peaches?" said Ryeston, looking down into the can over Sparks outstretched hands with an expression of complete confusion. "Why'd someone send you peaches in a pea can?"

"I don't know," replied Spark, holding the can out to Ryeston, who took it and slurped one down quickly. "Even sponsors have a sense of humor I guess."

Ryeston ate two more slices of peach and licked the syrup off his fingers before he handed the can back out to Spark. But Spark was no longer focused on the patch of swamp where he sat with Ryeston, eating peaches out of pea can, instead his was remembering the night before the reaping.

It had been a warm day, and the night was still relatively mild, so instead of returning immediately home, he took the long way, walking through the sleepy town.

The small grocery store on the corner had only caught his eye because of the lights. The store should have closed hours ago, there shouldn't be any lights on inside. He'd walked up to the door, and finding it unlocked, decided to go in. The trouble with his detachment from his own emotions was that he sometimes had a hard time predicting how other people would react to their own feelings. In short, he lacked exactly the sort of empathy that he supposed told normal people it maybe wasn't such a good idea to barge into stores in the middle of the night just because there was a light on.

The door of the store was nearly silent as it closed and the figure, who had its back turned to him as it removed and replaced cans on a shelf, was not aware of his presence until he decided to speak.

"What are you doing?"

The girl jumped, dropping several cans which rolled to his feet, and turned to look at him. The look of alertness on her face melted as she recognized him, replaced by a slight, mocking smile.

"What are you doing out so late, Spark?" she said, tossing a strand of her light brown hair that had fallen free from the knot on the back of her head away from her eyes. "Wouldn't want a Peacekeeper to find you."

"I suspect you'd be in more trouble with Peacekeepers tonight than I would." He said reaching down to pick up one of the discarded cans. "What are you doing with the cans?"

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then wrapping one hand around his, reached inside her jacket pocket with the other and pulled out a can opener. She carefully removed the lid from the can and tilted it slightly so that he could see into it. Inside were several thick sliced peaches and a thick corn syrup.

"Peaches?" he said looking at the fruit. "What are you doing with peaches?"

In response she picked up one of the cans off the floor and held it up so that he could read the label.

"They're pea cans." He said dumbly. "You're putting peaches in pea cans." He had the distinct feeling that she was waiting for him to understand, waiting for him to see the divine meaning in the mislabeling. "Why?"

Most other people were exasperated and frustrated by his occasional lack of understanding, but she merely rolled her eyes,

"It's a joke, you robot"

"Oh," he couldn't really see how it would be amusing to buy peaches when you thought that you were buying peas. It seemed like it would be angering, or at the very least frustrating, but in his experience the girl tended to have a unique sense of humor.

She took a step closer to Spark, so that she stood just inches from him.

"You know," her breath was warm on his face. "You should really try to be more open to a good joke."  
Before he quite knew what was happening, she was kissing him full on the mouth, with only the can of peaches between them. There was a force and passion in it that did not match the mocking tone she always spoke to him with. He did not feel the least bit detached from his emotions as she pulled away without giving him the chance to decide whether or not he'd kiss her back. His feelings were all he was aware of, he was waiting for them to be treated like always; acknowledged and pushed away. But they resisted, or his mind resisted pushing them away. He wasn't sure which, but he was sure of one thing; he was completely alive with feeling. Never had he been more filled with it, part of him was surely ecstatic at being for the first time fully connected to himself, but for the most part he was afraid. The parting of their lips left his skin feeling as if live wires were pressing against it all points. It was terrifying, and exhilarating and he wasn't sure if he wanted to forget that feelings could be this powerful, tumbling one after another to take temporary control of his brain, and return to his quiet stoic life where everything made sense, or if he wanted to throw the can away and kiss her himself. In the midst of all this confusion, he felt his mouth forming words.

"Some joke," she rolled back her head and laughed, which did nothing to quell the rush of feeling inside him.

After a moment of wondering what he should be doing or feeling, or not feeling, he helped her finish arranging the cans on the shelf, turned off the lights and exited the store with her.

She'd waved goodbye to him as she set off in the opposite direction, then stopped, turned around and walked back to where he stood. He'd thought for a moment that she was going to say something, and he thought he might as well, but instead she pushed the opened can into his hand.

"For your mother," was all the explanation she'd given before hurrying off down the street again, without waving this time. Emotions are heavy things, and without the ability to ignore them, or the knowledge of how to face them, Spark simply stood there on the street until the Peacekeepers had found him and forced him to go home.

The next morning at the reaping, she had locked eyes with him for a moment as he'd mounted the stage after his name was called. Her face had worn an expression that he could not read; pained and scared, but also angry. He half thought that she might come to say goodbye to him, and he'd intended to tell her how out of place the expression had looked on her face. But she hadn't come to say goodbye, and he had boarded the train to the capitol without seeing her again.

He took back the can of peaches Ryeston offered and ate one. They tasted exactly the same as the peaches he'd brought home to his mother that night. The thick syrup was incredibly comforting on his tongue.

It did not take Ryeston long to grow tired of listing names of who might have come up with the idea of the gift; he only knew the names of a handful of Capitol people. But it did not matter because Spark knew exactly who had sent it anyway. Not only from the gift itself, but from the way it made him feel as if his emotions, usually so carefully insulated, were suddenly live wires against his heart.

He looked up at the sky, as if to offer thanks, but the instead the words that came out were,

"Some joke."


End file.
